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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772226">Divinity Will Stain Your Fingers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliaink/pseuds/marginaliaink'>marginaliaink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Hermione Granger, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Dramione Fanfic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Hogwarts Eighth Year, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Murder, My First Fanfic, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Psychological Torture, References to Addiction, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Teen Angst, Theo is a Little Shit, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, evil psychologist, slowest burn ever</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:14:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliaink/pseuds/marginaliaink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Little did they know -- fire cannot be controlled. It spreads infectiously, melting steel bars and gilded cages, igniting everything around it and demanding destruction. Demanding ash. Violent flames licking everything in their wake, charring old remnants and leaving behind something that no longer resembled Earth, but rather, Inferno. </p><p>And just like wax hardens when no longer tenderized by the growing heat of a flame, Hermoine hardened her gaze, her burning gaze -- and quieted the flames, because for now, her fire had to be suppressed to barely a flicker. Just enough to see. Producing just enough warmth for her to feel. And the Inferno would come later. All in due time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello lovely readers! this is my first dramione story, and I'm very excited, but also very nervous to share it with you! please be kind:) sidenote: im actively looking for enthusiastic betas! if anyone is interested, you can find me on twitter, tumblr, or wattpad under the same username (marginaliaink)<br/>with all the being said, this is a very dark story, and is recommended for mature audiences. I chose not to use any archive warnings to avoid potential spoilers, so beware. </p><p>enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"We drink the poison our mind pours for us and wonder why we feel so sick."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Atticus</em>
</p><p>The faux leather couch cushions made an awkward noise when she tried to adjust her seat, and the startlingly bare room felt as though it was pressing onto the pressure points of her skull.</p><p>Or maybe it was the vast abyss and the high ceiling overhead that gave her the sense that it was going to swallow her whole.</p><p>She couldn't tell.</p><p>She had been waiting for exactly four minutes and forty-three seconds when she heard the door open quickly, and a woman walked in.</p><p>She had jet black hair coiled tightly into a neat bun, perched on the very top of her head. Her boots made loud, high-pitched clinking noises in the twelve steps it took to get to the chair located across from Hermione. Her expression matched her aura, calculated, sly, and cold.</p><p>With a short flick of her wand, the door to the white room slammed closed.</p><p>Without looking up, the woman opened a manila folder lying on the desk and Hermione watched as her eyes scanned the information -- emotionless, analytical, no hint of opinion on her face.</p><p>They stayed in this position for exactly six minutes and twenty-three seconds, until the woman cleared her throat and closed the folder, eyes focusing on Hermione.</p><p>The younger girl looked around defiantly, looking for the possible exits in the room, calculating the risk of attempting to leave. There was only one door, and although the idea looked promising, she knew there would be a countless number of guards on the opposite side, waiting for her like vultures, happy she had made the first move, ecstatic that they had a reason to sink their teeth into her.</p><p>She had to be careful. Precise. Unwavering.</p><p>But also believable.</p><p>If she played the role well enough, it would work. It had to.</p><p>There would be nothing left if it didn't.</p><p>She made eye contact with the women carefully studying her and studied her back. She had a small smile playing upon her lips, her skin was virtually flawless, but her eyes were cold. An unreadable expression -- something between hunger and astonishment clouded her irises.</p><p>Hermione's hands begun to shake slightly, but she refused to break eye contact.</p><p>She wasn't the one with the upper hand in this particular situation, which meant she had to play the game.</p><p>Gathering her thoughts, she played out the steps:</p><p>1. Recite the story perfectly. Ensure there were no loose pieces. Tie it up into a neat little bow and present it on a spotless plate.</p><p>2. Precisely plant the seed. A flaw; a carefully rehearsed, simple flaw. Small enough to seem unintentional, but large enough that she would not be able to miss.</p><p>3. Play the part.</p><p>This part would be the most difficult. She had to put on a show, she needed to humanize herself, and find it in herself to detach from the room. She had to do it.</p><p>If she didn't... well... then it would be the end for her.</p><p>Refocusing back on reality, the women tapped her long, perfectly manicured fingernails on the polished mahogany and spoke to her, for the first time in twenty-nine minutes and seven seconds.</p><p>"So, Miss. Granger -- shall we begin?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>please leave kudos if you enjoy, and message me if you're interested in being a beta!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div>
<p></p><div class="story-editor medium-editor-element"><p>
          <em>"Death is the mother of beauty."</em>
        </p><p>
          <em>- Wallace Stevens</em>
        </p><p>"I have nothing to hide," Hermione answered nonchalantly, picking at her fingernails, little bits of dirt under them.</p><p>The woman chuckled dryly, "I would hardly consider your recent... expenditures... a matter of nonimportance."</p><p>"To each their own, I guess," Hermione answered defiantly, lowering her hand and placing it between her thighs to prevent the shaking she felt begin.</p><p>The woman daze flickered downward to her hand, and she quickly jotted down a note in her notebook.</p><p>"See something interesting?" Hermione asked, reclining back in her seat.</p><p>"You look thin," the woman mused, ignoring the previous question.</p><p>"I've grown quite fond of muggle workouts this past year, you know, hourglass figure and whatnot," Hermione smirked, trying to relax the tense muscles of her shoulders, rolling them back slightly, and once again, feeling the cold leather exterior of the couch prickle the nape of her neck.</p><p>"So you've been pushing your body to its physical limit? Relieving stress?"</p><p>Hermione quickly calculated the correct response to that question. Answer yes, and the women would note tension and overexertion; a notice that would hardly help her in the long-run. Answer no, and come up with a less signifying response, something that would fit her character.</p><p>Her mind drew up a psychological profile of the girl she was meant to be:</p><p>Hermione Granger - intelligent, loyal to her best friends -- Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Ambitions - achieving a perfect score on her OWLs, Head Girl, Prefect, and eventually becoming an Auror.</p><p>She needed to act her age -- an eighteen-year-old girl would be preoccupied with her appearance, maybe a potential love interest?</p><p>She snapped her eyes back to the woman and easily responded, "Just wanted to lose a few pounds. Thought that would make me more, you know, desirable..."</p><p>The woman noted the development, eyes lingering on Hermione slightly longer than she needed to.</p><p>She thought about what she wrote: Insecure, shallow, preoccupied with body image.</p><p>Just what she wanted.</p><p>She had to be careful, though. Making this too easy would cause the woman to suspect her, maybe even distrust. She had the outsmart the professional here. It would be no easy task, but she had been planning it for months. She had hundreds of different scenarios played out in her brain, each with a different path she would have to take, but essentially all reaching the same conclusion.</p><p>Although that was heavily expected, Hermione failed to account for the cold, piercing eyes that followed her every move, and the scribble of the quill on parchment, taking notes every time she as much as moved.</p><p><em>You have always thrived under pressure, Hermione,</em> she thought to herself.</p><p>All the information that the woman could extract from her only what she gave her. Mannerisms needed to account for as well, she noted. Following the war, the Ministry outlawed the use of legilimency and veritasium, claiming the war tainted the use of these magical techniques.</p><p>Consequentially, anything that had any ties at all to Dark Magic was strictly prohibited. This would work well in her favor, she mused.</p><p>The woman was trying to box her in, give her no out, make her confess.</p><p>Luckily, she was quite the expert at mind games.</p><p>"Do you believe in destiny?" Hermione asked, morphing her face into a look of regret, nostalgia.</p><p>"I don't see how that pertains to this discussion, Miss. Granger."</p><p>"It doesn't," she replied, fighting her psyche to conceive a look of sadness.</p><p>Clearing her throat the woman finally introduced herself, "My name is Dr. Meyer, and we will be spending quite a bit of time together for the next few weeks. After this evaluation is complete, a decision will be made based on your future... whereabouts." She hesitated slightly when she got to the last word, and Hermione laughed humorlessly.</p><p>"What's your first name <em>Doctor</em>?" she drawled, extending the last syllable, fighting the urge to tear through the fabric of her polyester sweater and carve out the muscles in her arm to prevent involuntary twitching.</p><p>"Irma. You may refer to me as Doctor." She responded, hardly paying attention to Hermione studying her.</p><p>"Well, <em>Irma,</em> where do you suppose lie these whereabouts that you reference?"</p><p>"You are a bright witch, Miss. Granger," the doctor responded, "You know your choices are quite restricted."</p><p>"Ah yes, I am quite aware. My <em>limited </em>options consist of Azkaban and the Magical Maladies and Injuries wing of St. Mungos. Hardly a broad spectrum." Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her legs.</p><p>At this, the doctor's head snapped up and she smiled, showcasing a row of near-perfect teeth. Hermione noticed a black seed in between her third and fourth veneer. She didn't comment.</p><p>"Tsk, tsk, tsk... Were you not informed of the third option, Miss. Granger?"</p><p>Hermione's heart began to beat faster, the tick within her hand becoming more and more unbearable. <em>Third option?</em> She thought to herself.</p><p>No. It was impossible. She was not prepared for this. She had not planned for this development. They didn't discuss it. No. No. No.</p><p>Breathe.</p><p>In. Out.</p><p>
          <em>Present a calm front. This isn't supposed to change anything.</em>
        </p><p>"A third option?" She inquired nonchalantly.</p><p>"Indeed. Although it is quite early to tell, I think you would make an <em>excellent</em> addition to my <em>in-depth</em> and revised Williamsburg Study. Right here, at the Ministry." Dr. Meyer smiled. Her mouth opened so little when she spoke, and the only thing Hermione could focus on was the black seed in her teeth.</p><p>She felt her heart drop to the floor, and her flawless exterior shake violently. It has been an hour and fifty-six minutes. The hands on the old clock moved tenaciously. Her skin crawled. She needed time. Yes, that was it, she just needed time to <em>think.</em></p><p>Maybe she would still be able to save herself.</p><p>To save <em>him.</em></p><p>
          <em>She just needed to think.</em>
        </p><p>But she couldn't fucking think when her hand itched, and Irma had that <em>fucking seed in between her teeth.</em></p><p><em>"</em>You have a black speck in between your third and fourth veneer. Top row." Hermione snarled, getting up from the tense leather couch and walking out the door, right as the clock struck six o'clock.</p><p>The doctor made no attempt to stop her or get up from her seat. Instead, Hermione could hear the sickly sweet smile in her tone when she responded,</p><p>"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Miss. Granger."</p></div></div></div></div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"And all I loved, I loved alone."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Edgar Allan Poe</em>
</p><p>She slammed the door to her room, looking at the bare quarters. A twin-sized mattress with no bedframe stood in the middle of the room, and a single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, enveloping the room in dim, fluorescent lighting. </p><p>She started pacing, walking around the mattress and thinking, the gears in her mind turning. Her hand ached, blistered, and she tore the sweater off her, frustrated.</p><p>She needed a quill and some parchment, anything. Just something to outline a plan, to gather herself.</p><p>Most of all, she needed <em>him.</em></p><p>But he wasn't there, and he wasn't going to magically appear. In fact, he wouldn't appear at all, unless she somehow managed to get herself out of this mess.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck. <em>Fuck.</em></p><p>She needed something to <em>write </em>with.</p><p>Hermione stalked over to the door of the room and banged her fists. A guard walked over, looking irritated.</p><p>"I need a quill and parchment. <em>Please.</em>" She snarled the last word.</p><p>They're delusional if they think they deserve to be thanked.</p><p>"Not permitted." The guard answered, rolling his eyes and preparing to leave.</p><p>"Last time I checked," she hissed, "You were to ensure my <em>emotional and psychological </em>well being is uncompromised. And from where I'm standing, it appears as though my anxiety is <em>worsening</em> as a result of your thick skull. In any case, I think it would be only appropriate to inform Doctor Meyer of your lack of <em>hospitality. </em>Unless, of course, you've had a sudden change of heart." Hermione's voice dropped to a deadly whisper, as she stared intently at the guard.</p><p>A flicker of fear flashed across his face.</p><p>Pointedly looking at her, he conjured up a quill and a scroll, tossing it through the slim bars of the window.</p><p>"One roll of parchment will hardly suffice. And a couple more bottles of ink." She smiled.</p><p>Obeying her, the guard scoffed.</p><p>"Always a pleasure." She responded venomously, as he turned to leave.</p><p>She wasted no time, falling to the floor and scribbling everything she could possibly recall about the Williamsburg Experient.</p><p>
  <em>Henry Williamsburg - most notable for his work in regards to mental and moral conduct</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- avid patron of using Dark Arts and other grey magic</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- used methods of physical and mental torture to "cure" victims of psychological illness</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- his experiment paved the way for a more representation of grey magic amount the wizarding community</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- test subjects were forced to undergo a series of psychological challenges meant to completely break their mental stimulus, and expose the most "damaged" parts of their mind in order to "fix" them.</em>
</p><p>She lied. Meyer must have lied.</p><p>There was no way the Ministry would have allowed her to continue the research. After the war, even the mention of Dark Magic turned heads, much less the use of it, or it's techniques for that matter.</p><p>Then again, why would she lie? Was this a scare tactic to ensure her compliance? To break through her character?</p><p>Bloody hell. None of this was making any sense.</p><p>She wished he was here. He was so much better at staying calm when things went wrong. When she had to step outside the neatly paved lines of her book, wander off the outline of her plan, she lost her balance.</p><p>He never wavered though.</p><p>Quickly pushing thoughts of him away and burying them deep within her mind, she got back to work, scribbling more notes on the parchment. Everything she could remember from her countless book was jotted down, carefully underlined, and organized.</p><p>She needed to come up with a plan.</p><p>She had fifteen more hours until her next meeting with Meyer, more likely her first <em>real</em> one, and she needed to be prepared for the questions that come with.</p><p>Whatever happened, her goal was to convince the Doctor to send her to St. Mungos. She needed to convince her, for lack of a better word, that she was insane.</p><p>The insanity plea, as Muggles called it.</p><p>It was dangerous territory -- making her believe she was insane enough to be sent to St. Mungos, but not insane enough for her bloody experiment.</p><p>This complicates <em>everything.</em></p><p>Trying to solidify a plan that would result in her planned outcome was difficult, nearly impossible.</p><p>If Meyer was set on having her for Williamsburg, there would be little she could do to ensure her safe retreat. Irma had too much influence in the Ministry, and if she argued that Hermione was "too unstable" for Mungo's, there would be little anyone could say to disprove her analysis. If she was too calm, too collected, she would simply be sent to Azkaban.</p><p>That was a death sentence.</p><p>Hermione's head was pounding in search of a solution. The intricate web of lies she needed to build was slowly falling apart -- no, it was obliterated when the experiment was brought into question. The ground was cold to sit on, and the mattress provided little relief for her aching bones. Irma was right, she was thin, and it wasn't due to muggle exercise routines.</p><p>She needed to get out of here, and she had three weeks to do it.</p><p>Refusing to sleep, she spent all night coming up with a way to avoid the imminent trap that presented itself in the form of one particular woman.</p><p>She stared at the dried parchment for hours, but it seemed like there was no solution.</p><p>When the first rays of sun peaked softly through the frost covered window, and she heard the soft chipper of morning birds, she made her way to the stale mattress and gently placed her head on it's edge.</p><p>Closing her eyes, she allowed herself, for the first time since she's been in this prison to let down her broad walls.</p><p>A tear slipped down the side of her face.</p><p>A second later, it was gone — wiped away swiftly with the pad of her sterilized thumb.</p><p>She had only a few hours before her next session with Irma, and in order to look at least somewhat presentable, sleep was necessary.</p><p>She closed her eyes and fell into a light slumber.</p><p>And like in the many nights prior to this one, she dreamt of pale silver eyes and sharp smiles.</p><p>After all, her Occlumency never did extend to her dreams.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
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      <div class="story-editor medium-editor-element">
        <p>
          <em>"Rome wasn't built in a day. But it burned in one."<br/>- John Heywood</em>
        </p>
        <p>A sharp knock on the door followed by the rattling of steel bars made Hermione jerk her head up in the early hours of the morning. She brushed off the non-existent dust on her clothing and stood up, slowly narrowing her eyes on the man opposite of her. </p>
        <p>His face was taut and elongated -- his mouth pursed in a tight line, mirroring her expression. There were lines of worry and old age watched into his forehead, and his shoulders sagged slightly, though his posture remained rigged and unmoving.</p>
        <p>"Dr. Meyer is expecting you in thirty minutes. You are to each breakfast, brush your teeth, and appear in the observational study promptly. <em>Do try your best to not keep her waiting."  </em>He snarled, looking at the girl's disheveled appearance and taking in the state of her unbrushed hair. </p>
        <p>"No need to fret, <em>sir.</em> Punctuality has always been my strong suit." Hermoine answered mockingly, turning around and dismissing the pointed man, and walking over to the steel sink in the corner of her cell-like room. </p>
        <p>The heavy white door of the enclosed space opened loudly and a plate was slid across the floor towards her, stopping two feet away from her mattress. Promptly, the door slammed shut, it's locks reinforced and bars unwavering like in the moments beforehand. </p>
        <p>The plastic bowl of porridge was cold, the sides of the thick mixture already drying. Two blueberries were placed left of the center, and a muggle EcoSecurity utensil was thrown carelessly next to the meal. The utensil reminded her of a pad she wore during that time of the month, the sides curving up slightly to resemble the shape of a spoon. Disgustingly, she pushed the meal away from her. </p>
        <p>She wasn't that hungry anyway. </p>
        <p>Turning back she refocused on the sink, looking for a toothbrush, and less hopefully, a bar of soap. </p>
        <p>She found a sort of stick with a pink foam top on the top, and after further instruction, she realized that this strange <em>contraption </em>was meant to be the means by which she practiced oral hygiene. The foam was infused with a minty smelling substance -- toothpaste, she presumed. </p>
        <p>Suddenly the realization hit her like a tidal wave. <em>Jesus fucking christ</em>, she thought to herself, gaze drifting from the silly excuse of a toothbrush to the flimsy eating utensil. <em>These were all items meant to prevent her from harming herself,  and more importantly, others. </em></p>
        <p>
          <em>Fucking Irma. </em>
        </p>
        <p>Exhaling sharply, she turned back to the sink, putting the ridiculous foamy object in her mouth and scrubbing vigorously. The all-too-soft material was as useless as it looked, failing to penetrate the area between her teeth and sliding helplessly over her tongue. The barely-there peppermint sensation faded about ten seconds into the routine, and all she could taste now was the fluoride water between her gums. </p>
        <p>Staring at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink, she looked back into the eyes of a small-statured girl with premature wrinkles and a downturned mouth. Worry lines were prominent on her forehead, light purple bruises peppering the skin underneath her eyes. The lines that once appeared around her eyes when she smiled too hard were no longer visible. A faint splatter of freckles was evident on the bridge of her nose, but her honey-colored skin had lost its color. Her eyes, though, held a sort of warmth in them. If you stared too long, the heat of them would increase, her gaze becoming angry hot, and suddenly the warmth would morph into a blazing fire within the irises. </p>
        <p>
          <em>"I will never lose you. Not until I can no longer see the fire in your eyes."</em>
        </p>
        <p>Hermoine smiled at her reflection upon the memory. </p>
        <p>She thought briefly about the mirror, exploring the possibility of escape with maybe a glass shard, or even a piece of the wooden frame. Rolling her eyes inwardly, she knew it was futile, there was no way she was able to break the glass with her fists -- just like all the items in her room were specifically made to combat any unwanted actions. </p>
        <p>She could think of various enchantments and charms that could be placed on the mirror to make it unbreakable. Unwavering. </p>
        <p>She wished she could put the same ones on herself. </p>
        <p>It was as if the true gravity of the situation finally fell into Hermoine's lap. She felt so much <em>less.</em> Less of a person. Less like herself. All these flimsy reusable materials surrounding her, the cold bowl of porridge, and the mirror. <em>The fucking mirror. </em>They all made her feel incompetent. Like no one trusted her enough to do anything. To brush her teeth, for fuck's sake. It was all meant to depersonalize her. Demonize her. Make her feel like an incompetent little girl -- a child lost in her own fucked up mind, wandering around the vast desert of disillusionment. </p>
        <p>Clenching her jaw, she blinked away the ghost of involuntary tears that fought their way against her will to the surface. It didn't matter. This was the role she was meant to play. As far as what anyone else thought, she was the child. The child who made a mistake, Golden Girl who just rusted a little bit -- lost her way in the desert. She was the one with a stack of cards to play with. </p>
        <p>They needed her. </p>
        <p>How would the world react if Hermoine Granger, One-third of the Golden Trio, War Heroine was locked away in Azkaban, or better yet -- used as part of a psychiatric and unethical experiment? </p>
        <p>It would cause an uproar -- chaos. </p>
        <p>The Ministry needed to keep this quiet. They had to keep <em>her </em>quiet. </p>
        <p>That's why her wand was taken, that's why she was purposely separated from the other patients, why she was kept on a strict schedule and even stricter diet. </p>
        <p>All in order to control her. <em>Contain her. </em></p>
        <p>Little did they know -- fire cannot be controlled. It spreads infectiously, melting steel bars and gilded cages, igniting everything around it and demanding destruction. Demanding ash. Violent flames licking everything in their wake, charring old remnants and leaving behind something that no longer resembled Earth, but rather, Inferno. </p>
        <p>And just like wax hardens when no longer tenderized by the growing heat of a flame, Hermoine hardened her gaze, her burning gaze -- and quieted the flames, because for now, her fire had to be suppressed to barely a flicker. Just enough to see. Producing just enough warmth for her to feel. And the Inferno would come later. All in due time. </p>
        <p>Composed, she stood from her seated position on the floor and knocked firmly on the door. It. opened momentary with a click, and she felt a man's presence guide her to the white room with the uncomfortable couch. The hallway was narrow and brightly lit, and she could feel the cold stone penetrate the soles of her flimsy shoes. She didn't complain. </p>
        <p>Upon entering the study, she saw Irma sitting at the mahogany desk, impatiently clicking her heels. </p>
        <p>"Irma. A pleasure to see you as always." Hermoine drawled. </p>
        <p>"You're late," Irma scowled. </p>
        <p>"What can I say, punctuality was never my strong suit," Hermione answered with a smile. </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"I rebel, therefore we exist." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Albert Camus </em>
</p><p>"How did you sleep?" Dr. Meyer asked, shifting her weight in the creaking chair. </p><p>"Like a baby," Hermoine smirked, "The accommodations truly are to die for." </p><p>The ghost of a smile appeared on the Doctor's face, but just as quickly as it had been there, it vanished. She rose her gaze to Hermoine and stared intently at her, eyes scanning over every part of her face, looking for a crack in her seemingly glued together foundation. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, she snapped her eyes down to the manilla folder in her lap and scribbled down a few words, underlining them with a sharp stroke of her quill. </p><p>"What are you writing?" Hermoine asked weakly, knowing Irma wouldn't dignify her answer with a response. </p><p>"<em>Uses humor as a coping mechanism. Fairly  common in patients with deep-rooted  issues of insecurity." </em></p><p>Surprised, Hermoine's eyes widened slightly, scanning the writing that was not covered with Meyer's hand. <em>This could be useful. If  Meyer decided to share her entire evaluation with her, she might be able to tailor and manipulate it more easily. </em> </p><p>Feigning innocence, Hermoine adamantly exclaimed, "I'm not insecure," knowing this was exactly the sort of response an insecure girl would provide. Exactly the kind of girl she was meant to be. </p><p>Without looking up, Meyer scribbled another note in her folder, no doubt the same thought Hermoine just predicted. </p><p>"Although I do enjoy introductions, I'm afraid we have to cut the pleasantries short. With such a limited time frame, I need to cover as much ground as possible -- perhaps even repeat the story multiple times. The process will be fairly the same every session, and for you -- every day. You are to arrive in the observational study every day at eight-thirty. At eight-thirty-one, you will be asked to retrieve a memory of a particular day, and upon viewing it, you will be thoroughly questioned, psychologically evaluated, and sent back to your quarters. While in your room, you are expected to keep up with your appearance, hygiene, and nutrition. That means no more untouched meals and unbrushed hair. Every week, you will be photographed in a Ministry-provided outfit on a Ministry-approved background. In the pictures, you will appear healthy, sane, and most importantly <em>happy. </em>You will sign a statement claiming that you have checked into the hospital at your own will and that the purpose of your stay is to heal your psychological wounds after the traumatic experiences you have experienced. If any of the rules and expectations listed previously are broken or not met, you will be punished. Punishments range anywhere from the kitchen and janitorial duties to electroshock therapy, depending on the severity of disobedience and circumstances surrounding it. At the end of our time together, you will be evaluated by a panel of Ministry appointed judges, who will decide your future whereabouts, which we have already discussed. During the deliberation process, you will be required to remain in your room. On a more positive note, if I deem you fit for daily supervised walks outside, you will be allowed this privilege. This being said, that is a <em>privilege.</em> It can be taken away. Other privileges include limited access to the Ministry library, which I know you must be very found of. Miss. Granger, if I have not yet made it entirely clear, you are not free to do as you please. You are a prisoner, and you will act like one in this setting, until you are transferred to a more permanent one. Have I made myself clear?"</p><p>"Crystal." Hermione responded, refusing to break eye contact and show any signs of weakness. </p><p>She felt a dull ache spreading across the surface of her forearm, the usual pain returning at times of stress and a high caliber of anxiety. The skin below her elbow itched painfully, but she didn't dare move to relieve her discomfort. When a burning sensation shot up her forearm and pierced the entire length of her body,  she took a sharp inhale of breath, and tried to quickly disguise it as a worried response to the situation. Her arm twitched involuntarily and she quickly placed it in her lap to avoid any further suspicion. </p><p>The slight shift in attitude must have been a suspicious response, because she saw Dr. Meyer's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch before clearly her throat and speaking. </p><p>"Interestingly enough, Miss. Granger, you don't seem all too phased with this restrictive lifestyle that I have outlined," Irma spoke lowly, cocking her head to one side and studying Hermoine intently. </p><p><em>"It's because I'm not." </em>Hermoine thought. She knew this was the plan from the very beginning. The late nights of meticulous planning and hours spent in the library researching Muggle psychiatric hospitals as a basis for the Ministry-run one were a Friday tradition for her. The countless composition notebooks with planning strategies and outlines were tucked away neatly in the darkest corners of her brain -- the physical copies burned long ago. </p><p>Stupid, stupid girl. </p><p>She had completely forgot the role she had to play. </p><p>It was her arm, <em>her fucking arm, </em>that was sizzling with such an intense and searing pain that Hermione saw blind spots appear in front of her, clouding her vision and dispensing fog on her ability to think. </p><p>She had to focus. If she couldn't focus on what Irma fucking Meyer was saying, this would all be useless. </p><p>Gritting her teeth, she mumbled out a reply: "It's quite obvious, is it not?"</p><p>"What is?" Meyer questioned, leaning closer to Hermoine, her eye flickering downwards towards the limp arm resting awkwardly in her lap. </p><p>"It's not like I expected to be in here baking cupcakes and playing dress up, <em>Irma." </em>Hermione snarled, shifting her gaze to the abnormally large clock on the wall, showing ten minutes and thirteen seconds of their remaining time. </p><p>Anger. </p><p>It was a good response. It made sense. A teenage girl lashing out after being restricted for her wrongdoings. It was a <em>safe </em>response. One that didn't arise any further suspicion. </p><p>Irma leaned back in her chair and scribbled something down in that <em>fucking manilla folder</em> once more. </p><p>Her expression took on a more neutral look, not as inquisitive and disbelieving as the previous one, and Hermoine knew she had put down the right card. </p><p>She exhaled a breathe she didn't even realize she was holding and returned her attention to the intricate clock. Five minutes and forty-nine seconds left. </p><p>She was not in any shape to provide a memory, or even view it and comprehend it enough to continue to act her part, this much she knew. <br/><br/></p><p>The unbelievable pain in her arm was proving to be a significant distraction, and she had to think of a conversation topic to occupy Irma for the next five minutes and now, twenty-three seconds. </p><p>"You think I'm insecure, Dr. Meyer?" Hermione asked slowly, a glint of passion in her eye. </p><p>"Your emotional response and psychological trauma implies it, yes." Meyer responded, not looking up from her notes. </p><p>"Let me tell you something else, <em>Irma. </em>I'm not insecure -- I'm a meglomaniac. Arrogant. Narcissitic. War Heroine. One third of the Golden Trio. They say feelings of superiority always stem from an illusion, but I disagree. They stem from power. And I know you need me a lot more than I need you, Dr. Meyer. You know how I know that? <em>Because it's a truth universally acknowledged that  those in chains  hold all the power. If  they didn't, the chains would not be a nessecity."</em></p><p>Hermione slowly got up, and made her way to the door of the observational study where another armed guard was already waiting for her. </p><p>The sound of quill on parchment momentarilly stopped. </p><p>She smirked when she felt eyes following the back of her head. </p><p>At least this response dignified acknowledgment. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>see end of chapter notes for TW:) happy reading!</p><p>p.s im still looking for betas!! please message me if you're interested!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"I'm unbuttoning my shirt; painting a circle over my heart -- please, just shoot straight." - Anis Mojgani</em>
</p><p>Upon entering her room, Hermione almost let out a sigh of relief. She stood in the middle of the small enclosure and faced the window -- waiting to hear the familiar slam of the door behind her. The second she heard the hinges creak and the soft vibration under her feet, she stalked over to the steel bars and stuck her head out as far as it would go, trying to use her peripheral vision to notice anyone outside or lurking in the nearby corridor.</p><p>After a few minutes of paranoidly checking her surroundings, she returned to the small sink in the corner of the cell and furiously tore off the white polyester long sleeve she was provided with at the doors of the institution.</p><p>Cursing under her breath, she gripped the pale skin below her elbow, pulling taut and examining the agonizing source of pain. Hermione grabbed the bar of soap that must have been placed there by a worker of the institution during her session with Doctor Meyer. Wetting the soap under a steady stream of low water pressure, she lathered the white solid and began gently applying it to the already ivory skin.</p><p>She rubbed gentle circles over the tender area, but it was futile. It felt like the pain was coming from somewhere deeper, somewhere she couldnt reach with just her fingers. The pain manifested itself underneath her skin, festering in her bloodstream -- spreading like spilled ink on parchment. It flowed in her arteries, poisoning her viens and slowly making it’s way to her heart. Her ink-filled heart.</p><p>The smell of fresh linen was clouding her senses, and her determined gaze was becoming less and less focused. Less and less rational. Thrusting her arm under the steady stream of water, she washed away the still-white soap. Not a speak of dirt visible.</p><p>Maybe she just needed to scrub a little harder. Maybe with a little more applied pressure, she would be able to penetrate the layer of the epidermal and reach her inky veins. Using her nimble fingers, she shakily reached for the indented soap again, pressing the bar into her skin. With dull and half-bitten fingernails, she began scratching at the skin.</p><p>Sweet, sweet relief.</p><p>It was as if the poisoned ink was spilling out of her -- out of her viens; her arteries. She felt the euphoric sensation of solace -- of alleviation spread from hub of her arm through her entire body. Her eyes fluttered shut, head hung back in a state of bliss.</p><p>She noticed the harder her fingernails dug into the skin of her forearm, the more elated she felt. It was like the first drag of a cigarette -- like coming down from a high. Like the euphoria after deceiving your drug of choice. This is what dreams are made of, she moaned.</p><p>She let her eyelids flutter open, the sound of rushing water bringing her back to the present. Her vision was slightly blurry -- the small mattress in the room doubling. Squeezing her eyes shut, she concentrated on grounding herself, her knees buckling slightly under the weight of her body.</p><p>Hermione drew her gaze slowly to the limp arm resting on the edge of the sink. The cool metal felt comforting -- juxtaposing the heat emanating from the her body. Squinting slightly, she gasped at the picture in front of her.</p><p>Fresh ink spilling over the sides of the sink.</p><p>Staining the steel jet black and tinting her world in a darker hue.</p><p>The copious amount of the midnight blue substance made it hard for the small opening at the bottom of the pool to allow for it’s passage. The drain gurgled in an attempt to rid poisonous substance, but Hermione’s eyes saw the liquid double faster and faster every time, until it was splashing outside of the sink, dripping onto the linoleum tiles. The swirling ink enchanted her for a moment of time -- thick as blood, drawing strange shapes on the floor and converging into letters. Unknown letters of a strange language she could not understand, but that felt oddly farmiliar. Entranced by the beauty of the cooly luminous gel, she stared carefully, not daring to blink or look away, afraid that it would disappear the second she shut her eyes, and then -- well, she would definitely be considered crazy then.</p><p>It felt as though the blue-black dye was trying to tell her something, to communicate with her through a strange and archaic language she was not able to understand, although she desperately wanted to.</p><p>She couldnt tell recall how long she stood there, mesmerized by the perceptual and immortal puddle forming on the floor, but the iridescent ink began showing a reflection of a glossy-eyed girl.</p><p>Bringing her face closer, she stared in awe, raising her eyebrows and seeing the plain reflection mirror hers.</p><p>Her reflection.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.</p><p>As if electrocuted, Hermione snapped out of the prosaic trance she was under and took in her surrounding -- the steel sink filled with infernally black ink and a smaller pudding of the same substance forming under her feet. Frantically scanning the room, she tried to look for any sign of the culprit; a clue as to where this poison was coming from. She saw nothing until her frantic gaze turned to her right arm.</p><p>Covered in the black tar -- the sticky, thick ink oozing out of it in coagulated droplets that fell onto the floor.</p><p>Mouth agape in pure terror, the icy sensation of horoor overtook her.</p><p>She froze.</p><p>The limp arm hung from her side like a useless extension her herself. She didnt know what to do.</p><p>Running over to the tiny mattress on the opposite side of the room, she roughly tore off the cold sheets and threw them on the floor, desperately trying to convince them to soak up the persistent pigment. The colorant spread across the sheets, tainitng them. She needed to stop the flow from her arm. Applying steady pressure to the area below her elbow, she felt the gradual decrease and ultimate end of the everlasting mass of fluid.</p><p>Peeling back the flimsy sheets, Hermione stared at the disfigurement she had caused. The dull scratches from her fingernails applied so much pressure to the soft epidermal layer of her skin that it was completely torn off, revealing layers of tissue. Looking away in disgust, she felt, for the first time since her arrival, like she might actually belong in the place they brought her to. Where she brought herself too.</p><p>Trudging back to the now bare mattress on the opposite side of her cell, Hermione fell into the plush comfort of a bed that was never hers, and that didn't feel anything like home.</p><p>And in that moment, she admitted to herself that she was scared. Not of Irma, or the guards, or even the bloody Ministry, but of herself.</p><p>She curled up into a small ball, pressing her back against the wall and praying for salvation. The exhaustion overtook her body, rocking her to sleep with the soft melodic sounds of a dripping faucet.</p><p>She dreamt of empty courtyards and dark hallways, vibrating with the sound of soft laughter and hushed kisses. She dreamt of clear skies and a still lakes, of clandestine meetings and whispered apologies.</p><p>And then she dreamed of ink. Pungent and rotten, ethereal and theatrical -- tainitng her dreams and coloring them in shades of infernal black, until she could no longer see through the cracks. Until it spread to the very edges of her sleep.</p><p>When she awoke the next morning and saw no sign of the previous night, a strange sense of relief filling every part of her being. Maybe it really was all a dream. A sick and twisted nightmare that manifested itself because of the influx of time she sent in this bloody place.</p><p>Yes, that’s what it was. This fucking place. It made her crazy -- with Doctor fucking Irma breathing down her neck and psychoanalyzing her every second of every waking day. It was making her go crazy. The pressure and the constance surveillance made her like this. Breathing a sigh of relief, she accepted the past night, heavily relieved that she could rationalize this.</p><p>And the thing is, she was so close. So close to disregarding the entire incident. To forgetting it.</p><p>Practically one step away.</p><p>But her fragile ignorance was completely shattered the moment she came up to the cold sink on the other side of the room and grabbed the bar of soap laying next to it.</p><p>Washing her hands, she saw the dried remains of scarlet red underneath her fingernails. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>TW: graphic description of blood.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a/n: Dedicated to the lovely @veronniekuh on wattpad and @crushedroses on ao3, whose kind words granted me the willpower to write another chapter in the midst of this wave of sadness. Thank you. </p>
<p>TW at the end of the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” - Maggie Kuhn </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After sitting on the linoleum floor for approximately forty-five minutes, Hermione roughly pulled herself up to a standing position. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She had no time for this. Moping around with her hands pressed to her forehead, wondering things about herself and instilling anxiety into her brain. She would worry about it later. This </span>
  <em>
    <span>episode, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or whatever it was, could be dealt with at a later date, when she no longer had the weight of a life hanging on her shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With soft hands and even softer lips. With hard lines and angular features. Beautiful, like marble. So hard, and yet delicate. Chiseled out by Antonio Cavona himself. He had always insisted that Donatello was the most talented -- all precise lines and accurate features. Hermione agreed, but deep down, Cavona was much closer to her heart. She knew it the second she saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>Psyche Revived By Cupid’s Kiss </span>
  </em>
  <span>in her third year Ancient Greek textbook. The stone sculpted in such a way that it looked delicate -- all round edges and long lines. She never knew why she felt so mesmerized by the piece of work, surely there were more exceptional artists, whose work was displayed in various rooms of the Louvre. That was until she met him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaded edges and hard lines. She had taken him as her own personal piece of artwork; and while her unique craft could be seen in him, his own could be seen within her. She made him elegant, hard as stone but soft upon sight, a beautiful angel who graced earth with his presence. Powerful, captivating, alluring. She had fixed his wings after the fall. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His Donatello-esque personal touch was seen in every atom she possessed. It was as if he had touched her very core. Made her strong, replacing the porcelain shell with magnificent marble. She was more coarse, no more smooth lines and malleable edges. Hard, unyielding, adamant. He had revived her with a kiss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione knew it went deeper than a physical connection. They had mirrored souls. She looked into his eyes and saw the same burning flame she had in her own.   </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, she wondered if it was just one soul split into two. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>🂸</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> It was the first official day of her interrogation with Irma, and she needed to be well prepared. This preparation required at least thirty minutes of Occluding, as well as a ten minute meditation session during which she would be able to elaborately plan out how to best produce and procure her memories. It was a tricky business -- memories. Although she could not alter them, or change them in any way, she was able to piece them together, intricately tying certain ones together with thin golden threads, creating a delicately-fragile spider’s web, which, from father away, drew the exact picture she intended. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She liked to imagine it as a sort of puzzle. If she removed herself from the tense situation, she could think clearly. It was almost similar to her Ancient Runes homework -- figuring out the translation of every symbol and piecing together it’s meaning. In this case, it was the opposite. Take pieces of memories, small fragments that would fit in well together, and that would help her tell her story. Stitched together with elaborate details and embroidery thread, the delicate web of woven lies would help get her out of here. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The trouble, however, would be the placement of the flaw. The one tiny thread that she would have to cut and that would in turn unravel the entire web. But it had to unravel in a very specific way -- a way that would in turn reveal another planned memory. It was all quite interesting, to be honest, and the plan was solid. The only problem was, Hermione was no actor. She had not had much practice with lying and acting and manipulating a trained professional. She was the brightest witch of her age, after all. She could do it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>maddest </span>
  </em>
  <span>witch of her age, a tiny voice in the back of her brain whispered. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She shut it out, thinking of gold threads and embroidery needles. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>🂸</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The heavy door to her space opened and a different guard walked in, taking her by the arm and leading her to Irma’s study. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He gripped her arm much more gently then the other man, but still had a firm hold on her as she walked through the desolate hallway, hearing the screams of other patients getting punished. Guttural cries rang across the enclosed space of the building, and she asked the man what, or who was causing the noise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Suicide attempt.” He answered simply, as if it was the most normal and mundane thing ever. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her body tensed up, feet heavy, and she halted to a stop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Who?” she asked the man, hoping he was careless enough to tell her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No one you know anyway,” he responded, but the way he hung his head down and clutched her arm more tightly told her all she needed to know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He led her into the observational study, nodding his head at the doctor before firmly shutting the door and leaving her alone with Irma. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Let the game begin</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Meyer winced at her when she took in her appearance -- hair disheveled, dark purple bruises forming under her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I explained the expectations fairly clearly,” she said, “One of which was to keep up with your appearances.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And I thought one of your expectations as a psychoanalyst was to be a bloody professional, so I guess we were both wrong in different respects.” She smirked in response, waiting for any type of reaction from Irma. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sit.” She said simply, her face betraying no emotion. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Two can play at that game.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hermione thought. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You will be punished. Kitchen duty tonight. Tomorrow you are expected to give your official statement to the press, so I will have someone come and forcefully wash and cleanse you, if you do not do so yourself.” She responded simply. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione stayed quiet, glancing out the huge window on the other side of the study. She eyed the clock she had become fairly accustomed to, noting that she had two hours and fifty-seven minutes left of ehr session. Viewing the memories would take about two-thirds of the time, and the discussion would then be limited to about an hour. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just like she planned. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We have to get through eleven months in three weeks. You will present your memories from September first, the start of term, to July 30, the end of term. You will be recalling about two weeks of memories her day, which we will spend revisiting, then discussing. Although our sessions were originally supposed to last only three hours, they will likely stretch to about five or six, seeing as the time to view and analyze the memories are not sufficient. The logistics are currently being discussed. I am pushing for extending the psychoanalytic part of your treatment for two months. That way, you will be asked to recall the memories by week. I think this will gain a more accurate psychological sketch for us and be easier for you, seeing as it will require less mental exertion. The answer to my request should be delivered within the minute. We will wait for Wooby to return with the news before beginning our first session.” Irma articulated, all the while not looking up at Hermione. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She turned the news over in her head. An extra five weeks in the psychiatric ward could  be both a blessing and a curse. The more time she had to think and carefully plan her memory web, the better. She could ensure a more precise retelling of 8th year, and perhaps increase her chances of getting sent to the Magical Maladies Section of St. Mungo’s. With the new development of the Williamsburg experiment, which heavily complicated things, this would be a positive. On the other hand, she had to spend more time in this bloody place. It also meant there was a bigger margin of error. A risk she was willing to take, if it meant getting out of here. If the Ministry approved Meyer’s request, she would have to make it very clear to the press that there had been a change of scheduling in regards to her stay. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She didn't notice the heavy silence engulfing them until she had finished processing the information. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She had also failed to notice the dull ache in her arm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Trying and failing to push the incident out of her mind, Hermione grew more paranoid about her arm. It was becoming a problem. The pain was sharp and searing, much like Harry had described his lightning-bolt scar had felt when he sensed danger. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She would have to analyze and research it. Perhaps, if the session today went well, she would ask Meyer for library access, maybe bribing her by promising to put a good word in the press about her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lost in thought, Hermione flinched when she heard the pop of Apparition -- a skinny House Elf in tattered clothing and no shoes appearing next to the door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor. Meyer,” he squeaked and bowed so far down, his nose was sweeping the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wooby.” Meyer responded strictly, “What is the response from the Minister?” She asked impatiently. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He has agreed to extend Miss. Granger’s time at the Ministry.” Wooby replied quickly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well. Get out.” Irma said, waving her hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wooby flinched and Apparated away soundlessly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione stared at the empty space the small elf disappeared from and felt an ache in her heart for Dobby, a dear old friend. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, she turned to face Meyer, who was already examining her carefully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s afraid of you.” she spoke sadly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He should be.” Irma responded, continuously studying the look on Hermione’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes darkened. “I thought the Ministry did not support inhame treatment of House Elves. I thought the war changed their views on the issue.” Hermione thought out loud. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am the Ministry.” Irma responded with a condescending smirk. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She turned the words over in her head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hermione had a feeling there was much to learn about Irma Meyer. </span>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>TW: brief mention of suicide (no description).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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